Without You
by teaandcharcoalforbreakfast
Summary: America is lonely and tired. All he really wants is England. This leads to some... interesting coping methods. UKUS, M for masturbation, deanon from kink meme


America was exhausted. Right after he finished climbing the stairs and got into his apartment he was going to bed. Why did his bosses always feel the need to work him harder whenever the economy was bad? He swore that he was just not going to show up some day. He hadn't been paid in real money for a long, long time and grocery stores didn't take savings bonds (thankfully, though, this land lord did. He especially liked all the old World War One ones that America had never remembered to get his money for.

At least he liked this apartment building. It was old but in way better shape then some of the other places he lived in. The wallpaper was probably from the twenties and the wood floors creaked, but everything was well cared for and there wasn't a roach in sight. He smiled and ran his hand along the hallway's wood molding. He liked the land lord too, partially because of the way he took care of the building, but also because of the way he acted. After all, he was always nice to America, not asking about the week-long trips that were to other countries, always having a bowl of candy out, and he loved America, both the country he didn't know lived in his building and the excitable Jones boy. America had the feeling that he wanted to become a museum curator but didn't have the money. Maybe once he retired America would give him his old stuff. It wouldn't be long now, he was already old. America shook his head. That was why it was better to be unattached to humans.

"_Or anyone, really," _He thought as he turned the key.

He took off his coat and placed it on the hook by the door. It wasn't even worth turning on the lights as he trudged towards his room.

He hated coming home to an empty apartment, and that's what it was at the moment: empty. The land lord didn't allow animals, fair enough, but Tony was gone too, off doing some research for _his_ boss on climate change down in Brazil. He'd offered to email or text with updates, but America heard enough about it at work.

Still, it made him feel kind of sad whenever he walked past the little guy's room and didn't see light flickering under the door.

He went to his own room, shut the door behind him and collapsed onto the nearest part of his mattress. He peeled off his glasses and set them on the bed side table. If not for the fact that he felt like wrapping himself up in a little blanket cocoon he would have just sat there all night. It was when he was tugging the blankets from the far side of the bed that he realized he'd landed on the right side. He stopped and reached out, gently caressing the other pillow.

"I miss you," He whispered, "I miss you so much…"

It wasn't normal for him to get all neglected and depressed just from seeing the other side of his bed. He moved around often enough that he'd probably slept there more often than England. It was just that whenever they were together, England was always on the left. America could picture him so clearly. How often had he woken up to England curled up on his side, always facing him? That was the real reason they did it, England slept on his left side. America could sleep in any position as long as his head was on something and he had something to hold, but England had slept curled up on his left side for as long as America could remember. The result of this was usually that they woke up in a tangle of limbs and breathing on each other's heads or necks.

America rolled over so that he was on the far- on England's side. He buried his nose in the pillow, as though the sent of plain soap and tea and gardens would still be there after the pillowcase was washed several times. No, there was just that overpowering smell of nothing. Intellectually, he knew that it did smell of something- that when England would come and put his head down he'd smell America- but it just _felt _so empty.

He wanted to Skype him. Even if he couldn't reach out and touch him, America just wanted to see England for a while, to hear his voice even if it was distorted by his speakers and didn't resonate the way it was supposed to.

It couldn't happen, though. Even if it was a reasonable enough time in DC, it was the middle of the night in London. England needed his rest. He was having as bad of a time as America. Even if he would forgive America for waking him up, America wouldn't be able to forgive himself so easily.

America sighed. When did he grow a goddamn conscience?

He had to take his mind off of being lonely. Thankfully, since he'd more or less been a hermit for most of his life, he knew how to do it. He lost himself to imagination, thinking of what it would be like if England was there with him.

America could picture him so clearly. God he was beautiful. They'd sit out in the park, maybe holding hands, maybe not, but they should be in a big, open field so that America could look at him in the sunlight. America loved him in romantic candlelight that made his skin look gold and his eyes shimmer. He loved him in the moonlight that made his skin seem to glow and he loved the shadows that made the angles on his face and body more defined. But more than that, England looked fantastic in the sun. He didn't have the blatant sex appeal or that mystical quality then; it was all about England sitting there happy and warm without hiding. On a good day he'd smile. Oh, hell, did America like his smile. There was just something about the innocence and honesty of it, that he was willing to ignore all of the walls he liked to have up to protect himself and just be _England _for just a little while. Every little part of it drove America wild: his surprisingly perfect teeth, how his eyebrows would for once not make it look like he was scowling, the way his skin crinkled around the outside of his eyes. Hot damn, those eyes: so bright, so green.

It was at that point America realized he had started rubbing against the bed.

"Well now aren't we starting to feel better?" He asked himself.

He laughed once it was out of his mouth, realizing he'd said it in a British accent. He placed his hand over his crotch and, oh, was it nice to have flesh there instead of mattress even if it was his own.

"Oh, England," He whispered, letting his eyes fall closed as he imagined that it wasn't his hand there but his lover's.

"_It looks like someone's enjoying this a bit too much," _his dream-England said with that sly smirk that only happened during sex oh his face.

"Can never enjoy you too much, babe."

Dream-England stuttered and turned pink. America wasn't sure if it was from the comment or that America had just reached up to cup him right back.

England began to rub against America's hand, _"Aren't we a little early in the evening for this?" _

"Maybe," America said, smiling, "But I love you, baby. I need you."

"_I know," _England said, _"But that doesn't mean I don't want to do this right." _

America's tie slid off and then his buttons started to come open. A hand followed, tracing his skin as every new inch was exposed: rubbing his sides, fingers splaying over his belly, which, since England was visiting, was toned so that he just had enough of a hint of abs to drive him crazy without making him feel insecure with his own body, even though _England's _was perfect and more compact than scrawny and _hot damn _did he work the scrappy sort of look that showed he had lived through so much and was still there loving and cuddling America and it reminded him of rescue animals that turn out to be way sweeter and more loving than anything you could buy from a store and-

He took a deep breath and pulled his hand away. There was no point in him getting that excited before he'd even gotten his pants off. He sighed, England was much better at drawing it out than he was. He'd just have to make do. He popped the button open and pulled his zipper down. He didn't touch himself again, not yet. England always liked to tease him until he couldn't stand it anymore, after all. He just let his fingers trace around his cock, close enough to make him desperate for more, but too far for him to actually get off.

He keened and threw his head back against the pillow.

"_You're so desperate, aren't you love?" _England asked, _"How badly do you need it?" _

"Bad," America whined, "I need you so bad."

"_Oh, I'm not entirely convinced." _

"Please!" America shouted, "Touch me! I need you to touch me!"

England laughed, _"Maybe I'll be kind to you just this once." _

America shoved his boxers and pants out of the way. England probably would have made sure they were all the way down, but America needed _something. _He wrapped his hand around his cock and began to pump it. The pressure and warmth were good, but it wasn't right.

His hands were rough in all the wrong places and his fingers were too broad and not nearly dexterous enough. Whenever England touched him he would use all these little tiny movements in just the right place but this… it just wasn't the same.

He let go of his cock and rolled over. He grabbed the picture frame from the bedside table and brought it close to his face. It was old, really old: a picture of him and England on V - E Day. America's lips twitched up into a smile. That was pretty much the only time when they were deliriously happy enough to let everyone see that they were in love. America had never kissed anyone in public as often as he did that day. Someone, probably France, had managed to get a picture right as they were about to kiss. The picture was taken right when they were exchanging that sweet "I love you so much that I can't stand it" look just before they actually moved in. America traced the side of England's face, remembering the pink flush on his cheeks and the green sparkle in his eyes that just didn't carry into the black and white photograph.

"I miss you," America whispered, finally saying it out loud, "I miss you so much and I can't- everything's just-" He sighed and set the picture back down.

He was starting to go soft. Maybe it would be better for him to just try to go to sleep. But as soon as he thought that he felt the loneliness start to bubble in his stomach and squeeze at his heart.

No! He couldn't accept defeat that easily!

Suddenly, he got an idea. He jumped out of bed and pulled off the rest of his clothes. The last time he and England had said goodbye they'd traded clothes. Not much, but America had lent him his old bomber jacket in exchange for the too-big sweater England liked to wear around the house. Within about thirty seconds, he had found it and pulled it over his head. He smelled it and, to his disappointment, found that he'd already warn it so often that it just smelled like laundry soap.

Still, it was warm and soft and that nice sort of faded green color that he'd come to associate with England. He snuggled down into it. It would be good enough for right then. He'd wear it as his pajamas and hopefully be okay until the morning.

It wasn't until he went back to close the drawer that he noticed the Ziploc bag that had been hiding beneath the sweater.

He bit his lip and took a step closer. He had almost forgotten about that… He lifted the bag from the drawer and wondered if it would be worth it. His cock started to swell again, answering the question for him. He swallowed and went back to bed before opening the bag and pulling out its contents: a pair of England's briefs that he'd stolen from the floor of a hotel in Singapore.

At the time he'd told himself it was revenge. Every now and then a pair of America's boxers went missing, only to mysteriously reappear in his underwear drawer after England visited him again. It was a childish prank he'd pulled and he simply didn't think about them most of the time. So why was he reacting like this?

It wasn't even like they were sexy. They were plain, boring, white briefs. America didn't recognize the brand, so they were probably cheap, too. He laughed to himself as he pushed the Ziploc bag off the bed; that was just so like him. Maybe that was why, in spite of their innocent unassuming nature, America couldn't imagine anything sexier.

Feeling slightly guilty, he rolled up his sleeves. He just couldn't help it. He balled the fabric in his left hand and brought it close to his nose. Oh this, _this _was what he had been looking for but better. Now it wasn't just England's detergent and normal scent, there was also musk and sex embedded in the fabric. He inhaled deeply and his hand started moving along his cock again. As he began to jerk off his mind drifted back to the last time England had worn this particular pair of underwear.

It was the night after they arrived (it was tradition to come at least a day or two early so that you were familiar with the area and rested, and therefore not lost and tired during the world meeting). They'd gone to someplace nearby for a nice dinner and then America dragged England out to dance. They'd had a few drinks, not enough to actually be drunk, but enough to help ease things along. They'd started kissing on the walk back to the hotel and England had gone for his neck when they were in the elevator. By the time they'd gotten out of their clothes both were dripping precome.

Oh, he could smell that in the cloth now. Oh, England. Oh _God…_

It was so thick, so blatant and he needed more of it. He sniffed the cotton like a bloodhound, desperate to take in as much as possible. It was still so strong! He was glad he'd kept it in plastic if it meant that he got so much of it for himself.

Christ, it was almost as hot as when he was actually sucking England's cock, when he could press his nose against England's skin and smell everything that had sunken into it. His mouth started to water, his oral fixation acting up. But he could worry about that later. After all, getting something into his mouth would probably mean pulling England's underwear away from his nose a little and that was unacceptable.

He stopped pumping himself for a moment, grabbing a little bit of lotion so that he could go even faster.

They hadn't fucked that night, America remembered. Not really. They'd done one better as far as pleasure-to-annoyingness ratios went. England was still on top of him, the light showing off his round, muscular shoulders. He rested on his elbows, lined his cock up with America's and allowed America to touch them both. He loved feeling England's cock next to his, rubbing and pushing and setting his nerves on fire. It didn't matter that it was his own hand touching them, not when England was above him, radiating the heat and scent he loved so much.

Man, how nice would it have been to have a toy to hold right then? Even though it wouldn't be warm or even have the same feel as England, it would have been nice to have something there. But even if he did pull one out, he'd probably have to hold onto it to keep it from sliding away.

He closed his eyes. He knew it wouldn't be long now and he wanted to come to something more interesting than his ceiling. Instead he thought of England, remembering the way he looked the first time they'd had sex the last time they were together. Maybe it was all that "absence makes the heart grow fonder" shit messing with his head that always made England seem more attractive those times, but America liked to think that it was because England was just as stupidly happy to be together again as he was. After all, he always had a better sex face the first night.

The main thing was the smile. Most times they had sex, England would just have an intense look on his face, eyes closed, eyebrows scrunched together, an almost-scowl on his face as he tried to hold out longer than America and drive him crazy at the same time. They couldn't even stop competing when they were trying to show that they loved each other, could they? America laughed lightly to himself at the thought.

But no, their first time England always smiled. It was a small, open-mouthed smile but a smile nonetheless. As awesome as England's normal smiles were this one was even better. It went even deeper, because not only was even more freely happy than usual, but he was happy because America was doing this to him. It was all America and only America, and the knowledge that he was responsible for all that made his heart beat faster and his cock throb.

America pressed his thumb against his cockhead, rubbing the slit and making himself moan. He flipped over on the bed, putting England's underwear against the pillow and burying his face in it again, the new position making the scent seem stronger again. He began to touch himself with both hands, his left taking the base and reaching down to fondle his balls a bit while his right continued to work the tip. He moaned, the noise muffled by the pillow.

But the best part wasn't even the smile, no, he thought, bringing his mind back to England. It was his eyes. Fuck, those eyes. They were hot at the worst of times, but during sex they were just evil. They looked so dark when his pupils widened with desire and they were trained at America's face, always at his face. England never looked away on their first night. Never. Usually he'd close his eyes with concentration, but not then. Then he wanted to watch America, wanted to see him come as badly as America wanted to see _him _come and America knew he was looking back the same exact way. He knew that they were both as bad, both as needy, because then there was no both. Because right then when he was with England and they looked at each other there wasn't an England or an America anymore. There was just them, connected by their genitals on one end and their eyes on the other, just looking and touching and _knowing _and-

America never knew what he was going to think after that, because he couldn't hold back his orgasm anymore and he spilled all over his hands and sheets.

He rolled onto his side and lifted the hem of England's sweater to keep his come from getting on it. He grabbed a wad of Kleenex from the box on the bed and cleaned himself and got what he could from his comforter. He dumped them on the floor, right on top of the Ziploc bag. He'd take care of it in the morning. He wiggled under the covers and rubbed his face against England's sweater. He pulled his body pillow close, snuggling against it. It wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't even really what he needed, but it would be good enough for now.


End file.
